Santa Fe Dead

32

ALEX REESE MADE a call to Tijuana, to a cop he knew on the federal police force there.

“This is Captain Rios,” the voice said.

“Juan, this is Alex Reese, in Santa Fe. How are you?”

“Very well, Alejandro! And you?”

“I’m just fine. I’m working a case that requires some information from Tijuana, and I hope you can help me.”

“Of course, if I can.”

“There is a hotel near the bullring called Parador.”

“Yes, I know it. It is one step up from a flea farm.”

Reese gave him the dates. “I need to know if two men stayed there. Their names are Cato and Edwards. Could you find out for me?”

“I will do so immediately,” Rios said. “Can you hold?”

Reese waited for three or four minutes, then Rios came back on the line.

“Alex? There were two American couples at the hotel on those dates, registered under those two names.”

“Couples?”

“As in a man and a woman? Mr. and Mrs. Jack Cato and Mr. and Mrs. Griffen Edwards. The clerk remembered that they paid in cash.”

“Thank you, Juan, and it’s good to talk to you again. Let me know if I can ever do anything for you in Santa Fe.”

“I will do so, Alex. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Reese hung up and pondered this information. Why did neither Cato nor Edwards mention women? He picked up the phone and called Jeff Bender at Centurion.

“Bender.”

“Jeff, it’s Alex Reese. I need some more information, and I wonder if you could get it for me?”

“If I can.”

“I checked out the Parador Hotel in Tijuana, and there were two American couples registered under the names of Cato and Edwards on the relevant dates. Could you ask the two guys who the women were? I’d like to know if they have the names ready for the question, and, of course, who they were, so I can talk to them. I need phone numbers, too.”

“Sure, Alex, I’ll talk to them after lunch; I’m tied up until then.”

“You’ve got my number.” Reese hung up and went to work on airline reservations between L.A. and Albuquerque the weekend of the murders.

JACK CATO HAD a letter delivered by the studio mailman, an unusual event, since he got his mail at home. There was no return address, but the postmark was Los Angeles. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper.

Mr. Cato,

You come very well recommended. I have a highly paid job open that might interest you. If you’d like to know more, please be at the Seaside Café near the Santa Monica Pier at noon tomorrow. Take a table outside, sit facingthe sea, and when I’m sure you’ve come alone, I’ll join you. If you don’t show, I won’t contact you again.

Cato’s first thought was that this was a setup, maybe by that cop from Santa Fe. His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Jack Cato.”

“Hi, Jack. It’s Jeff Bender. The Santa Fe cop called and asked me to check something with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Were you and Grif Edwards with anybody in Tijuana?”

“Yeah, there were a couple of girls.”

“I need their names and phone numbers.”

Cato gave him the names. “They’re both in the L.A. phone book; they room together.”

“Okay, Jack. Thanks. I don’t think you’ll hear any more from Detective Reese. He’s already back in Santa Fe.”

Cato hung up and read the letter again. What the hell, there was nothing incriminating about checking this out.

BARBARA AND JIMMY LONG arrived at the Seaside Café at eleven thirty and took a table that allowed them to view the outside tables. At one minute past twelve a pickup truck pulled up to the curb, and a man got out.

“That’s Cato,” Jimmy said.

They watched as he chose a table and took a seat facing the Pacific Ocean.

“Order me the lobster salad,” Barbara said. “I’ll be right back.” She got up, took her handbag and walked outside.

CATO ORDERED A beer and began reading the menu.

“Sit still and close your eyes,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. She removed his sunglasses and put another pair on him. “All right,” she said a moment later, “you can open your eyes, but keep the glasses on.”

Cato opened his eyes, but he could see nothing. The glasses were large and tight fitting, and the lenses were black. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important,” she said. She had, apparently, sat down across from him.

“Who recommended me to you?”

“That person would prefer not to be known.”

“All right, what is this about? I have to be back at work.”

“There’s an envelope on the table in front of you,” she said.

He reached out and found it.

“It contains twenty-five thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “I want you to kill two men for me. They are in two different cities, and no one will connect them.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady.”

“Yes, I have. Now all that remains is to find out if you have enough nerve for this job.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Certainly not, and no cop has anything to do with this. Now listen to me carefully. Inside the envelope is a sheet of paper with the names and addresses of the two men. There is also an untraceable cell phone number. You have two weeks to get the jobs done. I don’t care how you do it. When you have killed the first man-it doesn’t matter which one is done first-you will receive another twenty-five thousand dollars in the mail at your home address. When you have killed the second man, you will receive another fifty thousand dollars by the same means. Do you understand?”

“Why do you think I will do this?”

“Because it’s not the first time you’ve done it, Jack, and you always need money. You have twenty-four hours to think it over. When you’ve decided, call the cell phone number and tell me. If you don’t want the job, we’ll arrange for the return of the money. Now count slowly to twenty, then you can take off the glasses.”

BARBARA WENT BACK into the restaurant, sat down and began eating her lobster salad.

JACK COUNTED TO twenty and took off the glasses. He opened the envelope and found the money there, as she had said. There were two names, one in Santa Fe and one in Palo Alto, and directions on how to find them. He looked around at the other patrons of the restaurant and didn’t see anyone he thought might be the woman, so he put a ten-dollar bill on the table, got into his truck and drove away.

He had been back in the stable office for an hour when the phone rang. “Jack Cato.”

“Mr. Cato,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Ms. Bishop at GMAC. You’re two payments behind on your truck loan, and unless we have payment immediately, we’re going to have to take the truck.”

Cato fingered the money in the envelope on the desk. “I’ll send you a money order today,” he said.

“Can we count on that?”

“Yes, you can.” He hung up and dialed the cell number on the paper in the envelope.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

“This is the man you met in the restaurant.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll do the job.”

“You have two weeks,” she said. “If you’re late, I’ll have you killed.” She hung up.

Cato hung up, too, and found that he was sweating.